


That's Money, Honey

by Fudgyokra



Category: DCU, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Sugar Daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23554579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: “Check please, am I right?” he jokes, unable to contain himself.Slade sighs. “You’re lucky I like expensive drinks and good food.”
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 107
Collections: SladeRobin Weekend 2020





	That's Money, Honey

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1: ~~Highest Bidder~~ | Sugar Daddy | ~~Unplanned Pregnancy~~
> 
> Title from Lady Gaga’s “Money Honey.”
> 
> Beta’d by [postmortem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/postmortem), who bullied me into removing the word “tingle” at one point.

They hear it a lot. Dick understands the confusion, he does. It’s just that after a certain number of times, the sentiment gets old.

Nosy debutante after debutante, tittering waiter after waiter: “There’s nothing wrong with it at all! Who wouldn’t like to make easy money?” And, as if that wasn’t a bold enough assertion from strangers, the ones that seem particularly intent on stinging his sensibilities feel the need to add, “Mister Wilson is very handsome, too. If you’re going to have one of those,”—always _one of those,_ never the actual words, like they’re breaking some spell of immersion by speaking what they mean—“then it’s always better that they are attractive.”

He is normally willing to let it go on account of the obvious factors, but it’s starting to go to Slade’s head. The man’s ego is gargantuan enough as it is.

“Why don’t you let me pay for the meal this time?” Slade asks, not because he intends to do it, but because he’s trying to stir the already-bubbling pot that is Dick’s temper. His tone is facetious. Smug. “You know, since someone with a face like yours should never have to flash cash.”

Dick whips his wallet out with more than his usual amount of ardor, brows sloped downward. “Why does everyone assume that you’re…well, the one who pays for me?” Okay, so maybe he has fallen a bit for the immersion trick, too.

He might not be the type to say it, but Slade grins with all his teeth and tackles the front with no sense of shame whatsoever. “Easy. The ‘daddy’ bit entails presumptions about my age in relation to yours, which is enough for most people.” A pause, wherein Slade deliberately sinks another flute of expensive champagne with two long swallows. “But, by all means, you may take credit for the ‘sugar’ if that makes you feel like the bigger man.”

Sometimes, Dick wants very, very badly to hit him, only to restrain himself with a sideways set to his jaw and the knowledge that he can be as rough as he wants later. Out of the public eye and into the bedroom, where their apparently adoring and supportive fan-base probably imagines their couplings as idealistically as they do their dinner dates.

“So, what?” Dick tucks his credit card in the designated slot. He may or may not be slow about it so more people can catch glimpses. “Do they know who I am? I’m a—”

“Wayne?” Slade ventures, once again just to get on his nerves.

“—notable figure. I make my own money too, you know.”

“Oh, I know.” There he goes. The tone has audibly shifted from wisecracking to suggestive, which makes Dick smirk despite himself.

“Yeah, yeah. You think it’s funny I’m getting worked up about this.”

When their waiter reemerges to take the bill, Dick says, “Please, sir, if you would, keep an eye on my card to make sure it doesn’t slide out. I lose the darn thing so often that this is my third replacement in a month, if you can believe it.”

The waiter gives a brisk “of course” and trots off again, and Slade snorts a laugh during his next pour the moment he’s out of earshot. “Now you’re just being pedantic, Grayson.”

Dick leans an elbow on the back of his chair to twist himself around, aiming a smile full of mischief at their departing server’s back. “Waiter! Add another bottle of that Veuve Clicquot for my friend, please and thank you.”

The way Slade rolls his eye and keeps it aimed at the ceiling while he sips means he is trying to ignore Dick’s self-satisfied grin. An impossible task, with how he’s practically oozing victory, but Slade is a stubborn man. Not long from now, they will be taking it to the hotel bedroom, anyway. They both know delaying the inevitable only gives the tabloids more to coo about in their next puff piece, and if Bruce hears any more about how Dick is throwing money into prodigal dates with a mercenary, he might just snap and kill him one day. He’s trying to avoid that.

“Check please, am I right?” he jokes, unable to contain himself.

Slade sighs. “You’re lucky I like expensive drinks and good food.”

“And pretty boys.”

Conclusively, Slade makes an “mmm” noise around the lip of his glass. Dick awaits their ticket to escape all the high society onlookers, his previous bout of irritation completely wiped away.

* * *

The next evening, while Dick is poring over case files and coffee, Roy corners him with a remarkably unsubtle, “How was last night?”

“Nothing interesting,” he says. “Dinner was fine.” Dick is ninety-nine percent sure dinner is not what Roy is referring to, but he likes to hedge his bets, since it’s safer than somersaulting to a conclusion that would only embarrass them both if he were wrong.

But, of course, Roy blows a raspberry to indicate he knows Dick is bullshitting. When he crosses his arms behind his head and settles against the back of the couch, it is yet another wordless statement: He isn’t going anywhere until he gets the unabridged answer.

One corner of Dick’s mouth twitches upward. Although he maintains his stare-off with the stack of paperwork laid out on the coffee table, he hasn’t read a single word since Roy burst into his apartment unannounced about twenty minutes ago. “You’re a child,” he informs him.

“C’mon, is it so wrong for a guy to wanna hear about his best buddy’s exploits?”

“You know I don’t like it when you refer to my love life as ‘exploits.’”

“So, what, you _love_ him?”

Dick’s barely-there smile withers to a frown. Carefully, he shuffles the front page of his work to the back and pretends to read the next one, instead. “I know what you’re asking me, Roy. And if you want to know that badly, _yes,_ he is good in bed.”

An intrusive memory of Slade wasting most of his gifted champagne by licking it off Dick’s body makes him heat all over.

“I knew it! A dude like that can only flaunt so much bravado before you have to wonder how well he can blow your back out.”

Without his permission, a laugh jolts out him. “I mean, sure,” he says when Roy gives him a lifted brow, “every once in a while we play that way.” Running his mouth before he can stop himself is a bad habit, sure, but it’s worth every vice he has just to see the way Roy’s eyes grow huge with understanding.

“Ohh. Sorry, boss. Guess I always pegged you as more of a…” To demonstrate his point, he repeatedly sticks his index finger into the circle he makes with his opposite hand. Dick dutifully rolls the stack of papers into a tube and whacks him with it.

“It’s okay,” he says, laughing again when Roy snatches the tube and hits him back. “I get that a lot.”


End file.
